CHAPTER SIXTEEN
“Gonna fight these gumdrops,” I mutter under my breath. To further antagonize me, one of the sugary blobs slides off the gingerbread roof. It takes several marshmallows along for the fall. “Icing is a poor substitute for glue. It’s not like I’m going to eat this. Just getting sticky for nothing.”
Gruff laughter mocks my frustration. “What’s got your tit in a twist, menace?”
I widen my eyes at the usually G-rated father, but then realize Ronnie is missing in action. That allows me to slouch in my chair for a quick reprieve. “Hush over there. You’re not even trying.”
“Creativity is your wheelhouse.” He nods in the direction of his boots in the entryway.
“Never gonna live that down.”
He shakes his head. “Which is why I’m allowing you to put in enough effort for both of us.”
“Jeez, that’s almost considerate. Excuse me for caring.”
“Ronnie will appreciate it.” That’s his trusty escape clause.
“This is my first gingerbread house. It needs to be perfect.” The pressure is on, blazing a path between my shoulder blades.
“That’s a mansion,” he corrects.
“Thanks for noticing.”
“You didn’t have to make it so big.”
“Is someone jealous?” I stick out my bottom lip, deciding to use this opportunity to secure my position on the naughty list. “Does it bother you that I’m erecting such a large structure in your presence?”
Byron scrubs a palm over his mouth. “Brat.”
“Mhmm,” I purr. “These piles of candy get me hot. Whoops, what happened here?”
The grump watches in rapt fascination as I pick up a piece of licorice. I pinch it between two fingers, inspecting the shape closely. It flops like a limp dick when I give it a wiggle.
“Well, that won’t do.” I replace it with a candy cane. “This is better. Stiff and reliable. Skinny girth that’ll fit just about anywhere. Long enough to gag on.”
He coughs while adjusting in his seat. “You should put that down.”
“My throat? Yes, that’s the idea.”
I open my mouth wide, giving him an unobstructed view as I slide the candy cane in as far as it can go. With the hooked part wedged at my tonsils, I mewl just to prove I’m capable of swallowing much more. I remove the temptation slowly, making sure to hollow my cheeks for maximum impact.
“Francesca,” he growls.
“Oooooh, full first name. Aren’t you enjoying the show?”
“I don’t tolerate teasing.”
That gets stored in a secret spot for a later date. For now, I give him a coy grin and lick the tip of the candy cane. “Turns out my love language is receiving gifts. I’ve been feeling very grateful since you bought Greta and started making me coffee every morning.”
He scowls at the mention of his recent acts. “You don’t owe me anything.”
“That horse cost you forty-thousand dollars. The least I can do is provide visual stimulation. Do with it what you wish.” I bounce my shoulder, lowering the neckline of my green sweater.
Byron’s gulp is audible. “You’re gonna have to choke on a lot of candy canes.”
“Maybe you’ll give me a more substantial shaft to suck on and settle the debt faster.”
The fire in his gaze snuffs out instantly. “Don’t sell yourself short, menace. Not to me.”
I hiss out my next breath. In my experience, men don’t refuse an offer like mine. But I’m quickly realizing Byron isn’t like the guys I’d been instructed to keep company back in my old life.
He’s opened his home to me. I’ve had my first tastes of holiday cheer thanks to him and Ronnie. We’re sitting at the table surrounded by supplies to make gingerbread houses on Christmas Day. And here I am, trying to seduce him.
An ugly sensation crawls through my gut.
Gosh, I’m so far out of my element I can’t see straight.
Heat stings my vision and I look away, focusing on the tree we decorated together.
The shatter of a fragile ornament beats against my eardrums. They brushed off my mistake like cookie crumbs, but guilt still plagues me.
I wasn’t raised to be domestic. I’m a stray alley cat rescued from the streets, suddenly treated with nothing but kindness and compassion. The adjustment is steep.
Another sharp jab punches my stomach. I almost forgot to buy Ronnie a gift.
Christmas customs and activities are foreign to me.
At the last minute, I recognized the absence of wrapped boxes from me under the tree.
The mini motorized bike is the only thing I’ve spent my own money on since Byron gave me his card.
I was feeling really satisfied with my choice until she opened it.
She immediately wanted to go for a ride, as she should.
The only problem with that is Minnesota winter and the massive heap of snow we just got this week.
Byron saved the day like a real hero. He cleared out the oversized garage and let his little girl go wild.
I’m woman enough to admit I shed a few tears.
But then it was time to reveal what she got for me.
My hands wrap around the ceramic mug that’s warm from my morning coffee.
The clay is lopsided, lumpy, and a bit leaky.
In other words, it’s pottery perfection.
When I first saw it nestled in black tissue paper, the dam burst and I became a blubbering mess.
Ronnie had cuddled up against my shaking form. “I made it for you, Frannie. Do you like it?”
Never have I felt so inadequate. That child deserves much more than a small scooter.
I sniffle while returning from that special moment.
It’s strong enough to chase away the shadows of my past. A lone droplet dares to escape my eye and I swipe at it absently.
My unbalanced emotions have been misfiring, which blurs the gingerbread structure in front of me.
I clutch onto the mug tighter as if that will stabilize me.
Byron shakes his head. “If you don’t quit that, Ronnie is gonna fill your room with handmade crafts.”
“Really?” There’s no downplaying the hope in my voice.
His hum is contemplative. “You really care about her.”
I roll my watery eyes. “Duh, stud. She’s irresistible.”
“Fair point.”
As a final touch, my lack of construction skills attempts to attach a lemon drop as a doorknob. “I’m beginning to realize there’s nothing I wouldn’t do for her.”
He nods slowly. “Good. That’s the way it should be.”
“Wowwwww,” Ronnie breathes from right beside me. “Your gingerbread house is amazing!”
I startle at her sudden reappearance. “Just trying my best.”
Her smile is full of pride. “You’re really good at it.”
“Thanks, kiddo. Where’ve you been?”
She glances at her dad and he offers an encouraging nod. It’s only then I realize she’s holding something behind her back. When she reveals the item, I’m not sure what to think.
“Every Christmas, we look at pictures of my mommy. Her memory lives within us always”—she taps her heart—“but this is our… umm…”
“Tradition,” Byron fills in for her.
“Yeah! It’s something we do lots, but especially on Christmas. It’s almost like she’s celebrating with us.”
There’s an undeniable quiver in my bottom lip. Ohhhhh, no. I’m too unhinged for this. A lump forms in my throat and I can’t pull in a decent breath.
At my prolonged silence, Ronnie shuffles closer. “Will you look at the pictures with us?”
As if I could ever say no. Although, speaking is a challenge while I’m struggling to compose myself. “Of course, kiddo. Thanks for including me in your tradition.”
She scoffs as if I’m ridiculous. “We want you here for all the things. You’re part of our family now.”
And I’m crying again. Tears trickle down my cheeks faster than I can wipe them away. The hormones are out of control.
“Don’t be sad. She’s always with us. Even if we can’t see her. I’ll show you, ‘kay?”
My head bobs obediently. I accept her hand when she offers it, allowing her to lead me to the couch. The cushions absorb my collapse when the significance of this scenario bears down on me. It’s personal and intimate and not meant for me.
But Ronnie’s smile soothes my frayed edges. “Can I sit on your lap?”
I press my quivering lips into a firm line and pat my thighs. “Hop on.”
She gets settled, reclining against me like this is a daily occurrence. The thick album creaks as she opens it. I can almost hear the whispers of memories seeping out.
Her tiny index finger taps the first picture.
“This is when my mommy and daddy first met. They went to school together. Mommy didn’t give Daddy the time of day until they were seventeen.
He was so super excited when she finally let him take her out on a date.
They went out to dinner and a movie. Isn’t that romantic? ”
“Mhmm,” I croak.
Ronnie’s grin spreads as she turns the page. “Look! It’s their junior prom. Daddy rented a limo and bought Mommy flowers. They danced a lot. At the end of the night, Mommy told Daddy that she loves him. It was the first time she’d said it.”
“Did he say it back?” I find myself asking, completely engrossed in her retelling.
“Uh-huh, Daddy loved Mommy before Mommy loved Daddy.”
“That’s the way it should be.”
She hums in agreement before moving on. I can feel Byron’s gaze burning into me, but I avoid his stare. If I look at him, I’ll crack and the damage might be irreparable. This moment is too vulnerable.
Instead, I listen to Ronnie and get swept up by the past. Her delivery is beyond impressive. The way she describes each photo in vivid detail reveals how often Byron has explained them. She’s memorized her parents’ history as if she was there to witness it.
Each page highlights a major milestone, special occasion, or cherished moment.
When Byron got down on one knee and Nina said yes.
Their wedding. The day they bought their first house.
Holidays and birthdays. Their horses and dogs.
Byron’s promotion at Benson Farmstead. Nina’s round belly. Ronnie’s nursery in phases.